by Thomas King
Dedication
To the memory of what we have lost
and what we continue to destroy
Epigraph
“Then who do we shoot?”
—1940 film adaptation of Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
Also by Thomas King
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Morning.
The light takes the river by surprise and sets fire to the ice. Crows gather in the trees. Canada geese huddle together in the open pools of black water. On the far bank, a red fox sorts through the broken snow and brittle grasses.
A dead mallard is frozen up against a bristle of wolf willow, its feathers bright and glowing under a sharp sky. The bird will be gone by midday. If the fox doesn’t find the duck, the current will cut the body loose and carry it away.
The overnight temperature has stayed below freezing. Winter is leaving the land, but the cold is retreating at a tourist’s pace, strolling along, taking in the sights, lingering over lunch at a restaurant recommended in the guidebook.
I have no grievance with the season. Winter is winter. What does anyone expect? Spring will be cool and wet. Summer will be humid and hot. Fall, brisk and colourful. Then winter will return. Just like the moon and the sun. Just like night and day. Life and death.
Well, not like life and death. Life doesn’t come rolling around again as though it’s strapped to the spokes of some cosmic wheel.
Life. Death. Life, death, life, death, life, death.
Life is motion. Death is not.
The fox on the bank. The duck in the river.
LAST NIGHT, a storm rushed in, rattling the roof of the old residential school and shaking the walls. Lightning. Thunder. Rain and wind. Bluster and bluff.
Today, the sky is clear, the river path into town quiet.
Except for the crows. They’re on the move now, keeping pace with me, jumping from tree to tree, calling out to one another, playing games in the bright sunlight.
Marco.
Polo.
They’re having a good time at my expense. Making fun of this enormous, flightless bird, this featherless lump tethered to the earth.
Marco.
Polo.
I show the crows that I can be a good sport. I jump into the air, fling my arms about, and this sends the birds into paroxysms of screeches and shrieks. I leap up a second time and come down wrong on an ankle.
Nothing serious.
But it’s the end of my performance.
Up ahead, Iku Takahashi is dragging her newly arrived puppy along behind her. The dog is an Australian labradoodle. Iku has decided to call the dog Koala, slightly disingenuous for an animal who looks more like a dust mop than an arboreal marsupial.
Swiffer would be a better name.
I don’t want to talk to Iku Takahashi, and I don’t want to pet Koala.
“Mr. Camp,” Iku calls out. “You’re limping.”
I smile.
“Have you met Koala?” Takahashi touches the pair of binoculars that hangs around her neck. “She’s a purebred, out of Nicole and Teddy, and carries for chocolate and parti as well as gold and black.”
Who talks like that?
“How are the renovations going?”
The binoculars are green and heavy, an expensive brand that is popular among birdwatchers.
“I hope you saved the wainscotting.”
Joggers pass us on the fly, and Nicole and Teddy’s little princess bursts into life, leaping about on her leash like a trout on a line, annoying the whole of creation with her sharp, firecracker yelps.
I couldn’t own a dog. Or any animal for that matter.
“She’s in training,” Takahashi says, by way of explanation. “Everything is still new. Everything excites her.”
I begin a slow drift away from the woman and her dog.
“Have you thought about the binoculars?” Mrs. Takahashi holds them up so I can see the lenses. “Keizo said that with them, you could see the world.”
I don’t want to see the world.
“And when you have the big open house,” Takahashi calls after me, “don’t forget to invite us.”
IN THE SUMMER, especially on market day, the town plaza fills with people. Pickups and vans ring the small park, tables and tents take over the square, with vendors selling everything from locally grown vegetables to jellies and jams to handmade clothing and local crafts.
Lump-of-clay coffee mugs and beer-bottle wind chimes.
On those days, if you’re so inclined, you can have your fortune told or your face painted. Or you can dip wands into buckets of soapy water and lob huge bubbles into the air and dance in the grass.
Today, the plaza is deserted, the bubble and dancing season somewhere out on the horizon.
As I pass the Plaza Hotel with its beaux arts facade, I run into Bob Loomis coming out the front door. Loomis looks slightly startled, as though he’s been caught voting NDP.
“Jerry.”
Loomis thinks reducing my name to a diminutive makes us friends.
“Just the man I want to see.”
Bob Loomis is tall and slender, pale, with wispy hair that floats around a thin face. A long nose that hooks in like a beak and soft blue eyes that bulge just a little. He stands on the sidewalk with a hip thrust forward, his right hand hanging at his side, as though he expects to find a sword strapped to his waist. More than anything, he reminds me of the characters from commedia dell’arte—Pantalone, Pierrot, Scaramouche—with their elaborate costumes, obscene gestures, and unsettling masks.
“So, have you thought about it?”
Loomis owns Gleaming Realty. He’s also the town’s mayor and is running for re-election.
Bob’s the One.
In many ways, it’s the perfect political slogan. Equal parts endorsement and accusation.
I look at my list.
Pick up eggs.
Check out the tomatoes.
Get spaghetti sauce.
Avoid Mayor Bob.
“The land’s just sitting there.” Loomis finds an easy smile. The glare off his teeth is blinding. “And you know what they say.”
And fruit. If I can find anything that hasn’t spent the last month on a boat.
The mayor puts his hand on my shoulder, as though he is bestowing a blessing.
“Until we understand what the land is,” he says, his voice becoming deep and resonant, “we are at od
ds with everything we touch.”
Wendell Berry. The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays. 2002. Someone has been watching the History Channel again.
Loomis hands me his business card. “And you know what that means.”
The mayor leaves his hand on my shoulder. “That land claim is never going to see the light of day,” he says. “It’s been what? Seventy? Seventy-five years?”
Loomis has his back to the Plaza, so he doesn’t see Maribelle Wegman step out into the spring air, and she doesn’t see us until it is too late to duck back into the hotel.
“And cemeteries can be moved.” Loomis takes out a second business card. “Why don’t you come by the office? Give us a chance to talk. Mano a mano.”
“Jeremiah Camp and Bob Loomis.” The widow Wegman gathers herself, pats at her hair, and comes forward on cue. “You two look as though you’re up to mischief.”
Wegman’s voice startles Loomis, and he drops the card.
“Mrs. Wegman,” he says quickly. “What a coincidence.”
“Surprise, surprise.” Wegman smiles and holds her hands up, palms out.
Maribelle Wegman is known as the widow Wegman. Married four times. Three dead husbands. Not her fault, but having managed the hat trick already, she has been given the trophy to keep.
“Mr. Loomis and I sit on the city’s preservation committee,” says Wegman. “Do you know the history of the Plaza Hotel?”
I don’t care about the history of the Plaza Hotel.
“And has the mayor talked to you about the matter of the crosses?” asks Wegman. “Quite a few people have called my office with concerns about the crosses.”
Loomis has recovered completely. He holds out an arm cocked at the elbow, lets the watch catch the sunlight. “My god,” he says. “Look at the time.”
The watch is a thick, ugly thing. White face. Blue ring. Numbers running in all directions. It’s an expensive piece that looks happy on his wrist.
Wegman brushes the hair away from her face. “I hope we can get the matter of the crosses settled amicably.”
The mayor pats his stomach as though it’s a close friend. “I have a lunch meeting at the club.”
Wegman nods. “And I have to get to the gym.”
Across the square a black SUV, newly washed and polished, floats in against the curb, while near the bandstand a man picks his way through a garbage can that looks like a hippo with its mouth open.
“One of these days,” says Loomis, “you’ll have to tell me how you managed to purchase that property. Didn’t know you could buy a residential school.”
The windows of the SUV are tinted. No one gets out.
“I’m guessing friends in high places.” The mayor stoops down and picks up the card. “Am I right?”
Loomis waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t get it, he heads off in one direction, while the widow Wegman trots off in the other. Neither one of them breaks stride or looks back.
THE SUCRE BLEU BAKERY is two doors along from the Plaza Hotel. This is where Swannie Gagnon presides over brownies and lemon tarts, Danishes, and macarons.
Swannie is from Quebec City and, according to Eddie Ott, who owns the Bent Nail, this is why Swannie is somewhat abrupt and occasionally rude, and why she doesn’t shave her underarms or her legs.
I stand in line behind several people and watch the yellow jackets in the display case crawl across the eclairs. Today, Swannie has made her famous sausage rolls, and the woman in front of me buys six.
“I should get a discount for quantity,” the woman tells Swannie. “Buy five, get one free.”
Swannie shrugs and takes her money. “Then the business, she would be gone. Poof.” Swannie makes a popping sound with her mouth. “And the sausage rolls? Poof.”
I can see that the woman is not convinced, and I can see that Swannie doesn’t care.
I step to the cash register. As soon as she sees me, she rolls her eyes and gives me an exaggerated shoulder. “The brownie? Yes?”
I nod.
“Always the same.” Swannie goes to the case and picks up a brownie with the tongs. “One brownie. But perhaps one day the brownie will be gone. Poof. What then will you eat?”
Swannie raises her arms over her head, stretches to one side and then to the other.
“The tarte au citron? The gâteau basque? The pain au chocolat?”
The hair under her arms is impressive. I can see why Eddie is jealous.
The man is still at the can. He’s up to his waist in the hippo’s mouth. The SUV has disappeared.
I cross the plaza, head to the far edge of town and the Piggy café, a one-storey brick building, backed against a grove of cedar. The Piggy started life as a bank. The Gleaming Bank and Trust, founded in 1922 by Arnold S. Overholt. There’s a cornerstone with the date and Overholt’s name on it.
Arnold presided over the bank for thirty-five years, before he passed it on to his son, Seymour, who looked after the bank for the next forty, before his son, Charles, took over and promptly ran the business into the ground.
And when the 2008 financial crisis rattled the windows of the world economy, Charles gathered up what was left of the bank’s negotiable assets and disappeared into Cuba.
Or Argentina.
Or Mexico.
FLORENCE HOLDER is standing in the gloom of the Piggy, next to the espresso machine.
“That better be a brownie.”
I put the bag on the counter. Stand in the room and let my eyes adjust. Florence gets two plates and cuts the brownie in half.
“You missed Roman.”
Florence waits to see if I have anything to add.
“They let him out early. Stopped by to pick up his horn.”
Florence puts a scoop of beans in the grinder.
“And you just missed the Three Bears.”
Florence fills a cup with scalding water.
“Tonight, we’re going to Venice. Seven sharp. Don’t be late.”
She turns the grinder on, and the café is filled with the shrieks of coffee beans.
“People keep asking me about you.”
Florence dumps the water out of the cup and puts it under the basket. She lifts the lever on the machine.
“And I keep telling them that you’re busy ‘renovating.’”
I watch the espresso leak into the cup. At first, it’s almost black, and then it turns a soft tan. Florence lets it run out.
“It sounds better than ‘sitting on your ass.’”
I wait for Florence to steam the milk.
“Nutty thinks you should do a smudge. Chase the badness out of the school with smoke. But if you ask me, the only way to renovate that wicked place is with a can of gas and a match.”
THE BANK SAT VACANT for a number of years, tied up in liens, in class-action suits, and by angry creditors. There was talk of turning the building into a museum, and there was talk of tearing the building down. But in the end, the Gleaming Bank and Trust was dusted off and put up for auction.
Sealed bid. No reservation.
Turned out no one wanted a building that had been a bank. Something about the renovation costs, all the marble and the teller cages, and the enormous walk-in vault. Something about the shadow of failure.
Except for Reggie Clarke and his partner, Florence Holder.
Reggie managed a small restaurant in Toronto’s St. John’s Ward. Florence was a high-school history teacher.
Their bid wasn’t the best of bids. But it was the only one.
As soon as title cleared, Reggie rounded up a truckload of used restaurant equipment—gas stove and grill, refrigerator/freezer, sink, prep table—along with an espresso machine and a Rock-Ola Bubbler, and moved in.
There was some local interest in calling the place the Overholt Café for historical reasons, but Reggie had his own ideas, and seven months after he and Florence bought the place, the Piggy Bank was open for business.
I GO TO THE TABLE in the corner by the jukebox. I sit with
my back against the wall. From here, I can see the big-screen television and the front door.
Florence joins me. She brings a fork with her. In case I can’t finish my part of the brownie.
“You know why I like espresso and brownies?”
Florence has told me this more than once.
“Because they’re the perfect combination of bitter and sweet.”
No argument there.
“And because we’re all the same lovely colour.”
Florence slides the cup to me. The dollop of foam floats on the macchiato like an iceberg in a dark sea.
“News, blues, and comfortable shoes,” she begins. “Lead story in Europe is the death of Fabrice Gloor, head of Suisse-Baer Group. Gloor was killed in a single-car accident near Cap d’Ail. Was headed into Nice when his Maserati went off a cliff.”
Florence lives on the internet. News outlets, Facebook, blogs. Each morning over coffee, she brings everyone up to date on what they might have missed.
“In Texas,” Florence continues, “police have exonerated themselves in the shooting death of a woman who was killed as she was getting her baby ready for bed.” Florence shakes her head. “Woman was Black. Cops were White.”
I don’t need anyone to tell me what is happening in the world, and I don’t want to know. But that doesn’t stop Florence.
“I’m guessing the baby was packing a semi-automatic rattle.”
I take a sip of the coffee. Perfect. The brownie is just as good.
“While in local news, Mayor Bob and the city council will be having a meeting about the reserve at the end of the week. Closed-door session.”
The Cradle River reserve. About forty families, give or take. The mayor and the city council want to move the band and acquire the land, so the river frontage can be “properly” developed.
“But I expect that Louis and Enola and Ada and the gang are going to show up anyway.”
NO ONE CALLED IT the Piggy Bank. It was just the Piggy. Breakfast and lunch. Reggie did the cooking, assaulting Canadian fears and prejudices with Caribbean flavourings, breaking down culinary barriers with cou-cou, pudding and souse, conkies, cutters, and black cake, and adapting traditional recipes to accommodate fresh trout, wild game, back bacon, and fried potatoes.
Shelagh Rogers interviewed him for CBC. Margaret Atwood stopped in for breakfast one day and tweeted her appreciation. Toronto Life featured the café in their annual edition of where to eat in Canada.
